The Black Lace Fan
by windsworn
Summary: Sango and Miroku are going through a rocky period in their relationship…can a simple gift mend the ongoing tension between them? Read and review!


**The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me**

A/N:Hi, finally back from my busy class schedule…wow I forgot how heavy the workload is in the IB program! Hooray though for senior year.

The inspiration for this little story actually comes from a poem we tackled in class today: "The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me" by Eavan Boland. I thought this might go well with a little scenario between the lovely couple, Sango and Miroku…

As always, I want you guys to enjoy! Tell me how you feel about the story or just review for the sake of it…I appreciate any and all comments that come into my mailbox. It's because of you that exists!

Summary: Sango and Miroku are going through a rocky period in their relationship…can a simple gift mend the ongoing tension between them? Read and review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha, although stealing Miroku would not simply be an idea if it were possible! I also do not own "The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me"; thank you Eavan Boland for creating such a wonderful piece of work.

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A closed-up fan and some faded flowers: the few reminders of my mother that remained in the old hatbox.

Carefully, I picked up the fan and examined the clasp that was keeping it safe from further examination. A simple, but delicate hook; I opened the fan.

The fan spread beautifully, resembling a Renaissance Spanish gown or an Oriental dress in its intricate patterns of roses and tortoiseshell swirls set in lace. It seemed a fitting gift to my mother; a fan that was beautiful and mysterious, delicate but defiant to the long period of time that set it apart from its initial creation a century ago.

Experimentally, I fanned myself, fancying myself to be a courtier at a ball, using the fan as an invitation to lure suitors in. Had my mother ever used this fan in such a way before she married, or was it just another present from my loving father?

My mother had told me the story once, I suddenly recalled; the day before my wedding, when she had given me the gift of the black fan, the same fan that had been spread across the wall above the family mantle. It had been the same colors then, but somehow more vibrant, more lurid and inviting; it had spoken of a story to tell. Where were those colors now?

I remained kneeling on the dusty attic floor, but I held the fan out at arm's length, allowing the watery rays of the evening's sun to reflect off of the fan. It had been a miracle that the sun came out at all today.

A sudden flash of light startled me; a bit of tortoiseshell on the frame had reflected the sunlight. I watched the fan again, and was startled by its transformation. It was beautiful. Was this how mother saw it, the day she received the fan? Tilting the fan to catch the rays, my mind traced familiar paths to the story of the fan.

_It was the first gift he ever gave her,_

_Buying it for five francs in the Galeries_

_In pre-war Paris. It was stifling._

_A starless drought made the nights stormy._

Sango had been living in Paris for several years now; a result of her father's position as an ambassador for their country. While she stayed, she had learned much of the French culture; she came to love the atmosphere in general and her fiancé in particular. Today felt like an exception. A hot, dry summer had ensured that days in the city felt like a lifetime in the desert, and the muggy, cloudy nights that promised rain but never committed were stormy and threatening. 'Ironically,' Sango thought to herself as she arrived at the meeting spot, early as usual, 'this seems to resemble my relationship at the moment.'

_They stayed in the city for the summer._

_They met in cafes. She was always early._

_He was late. That evening he was later._

_They wrapped the fan. He looked at his watch._

Miroku looked at his watch again. 'three-fifteen…Sango's going to have my head.' He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in an unconscious, worried manner. The French were masters at creating gifts, but they had to be the world's worst gift-wrappers.

He watched impatiently as the man fumbled with the wrapping of the fan for the tenth time, and heaved a deeper sigh. The fan was meant to be an anniversary gift; one year since they had first met by the Eiffel Tower in the city of love. 'How much love this city is going to show if I don't get there soon would be my next question.'

Sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it off. It was such a sweltering day outside to boot. She probably wouldn't wait long this time. A smile of pure relief broke through the worried frown as the shopkeeper's son finally managed to wrap the delicate gift, placing it carefully inside its box.

"_Merci_." Miroku smiled warmly at the man, and took the present. As soon as the box was in his hand, he was off, rushing towards the boulevard where his beloved waited.

_She looked down the Boulevard des Capucines._

_She ordered more coffee. She stood up._

_The streets were emptying. The heat was killing._

_She thought the distance smelled of rain and lightning._

Sango waited for Miroku to arrive; he was late, but then again he was usually late. _Tap, tap, tap_ went the sound of her Mary Janes against the table leg. The tapping of her shoes beat an irregular rhythm, arousing some interest from an attentive waiter.

"_Mademoiselle_," he asked, "would you like more coffee?"

Sango nodded. Why not? "Just one more cup please, _monsieur._"

Passersby hurried past the outdoor tables, not sparing even a glance towards the cafes. Families were on their way back home from the park. It was a cloudy, unsettled Sunday afternoon; the humid heat beat down on the city like a giant fist of air. It was not the time to be outside drinking coffee, but it was the only time they ever saw each other lately. Was it even worth it?

"He's always too busy for me; he probably forgot what day today is." Sango muttered darkly to herself, fingers tracing the rim of the drained coffee cup.

"_Mademoiselle_? Your coffee?" The waiter had returned. Now he offered the fresh cup to her.

"On second thought, I don't think I'll need that coffee; however, _merci_, I'll pay you for both cups."

She counted the coins out for the coffee and rose from her table. She made one final look at her watch. It was three forty-five. She wondered if she brought enough coins for the train home.

Thunder growled low in the distance; rain and lightning would not be far behind.

_These are wild roses, appliquéd on silk by hand,_

_Darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly._

_The rest is tortoiseshell and has the reticent clear patience_

_Of its element. It is_

_A worn-out, underwater bullion and it keeps,_

_Even now, an inference of its violation._

_The lace is overcast as if the weather_

_It opened for and offset had entered it._

'Does he even care?' Sango thought, a bit despairingly as she headed towards the station at the end of the Boulevard. Every so often she would look backwards, as if to spy a dark-haired young man running towards her on the quickly emptying street. Most of her mind had already given up the idea as hopeless, but a wistful, almost unconscious part wished for his unusual mysterious smile set in the dark and handsome face. 'Why do I torture myself like this?' she wondered.

She was frustrated and angry; angry at Miroku, at the weather, and at herself. Why did she put up with his absent-mindedness about meetings for so long? It was quite possible he had another girlfriend he courted besides her; what if Sango was just a passing diversion? The way he could easily flirt with other women made her wonder.

A passing mother and son glanced at the frowning young woman curiously. She glared at them both, and they hurried on past her.

The train station was in sight now.

_The past is an empty café terrace. _

_An airless dusk before thunder. A man running._

_And no way to know what happened then–_

_None at all – unless, of course, you improvise:_

I imagined the last scene of the evening while twirling the fan, swirling the dust in the antique air of the attic.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Miroku ran a little bit faster. Why hadn't he driven his car? He wondered to himself.

The Boulevard des Capucines was quiet; the street emptying of occupants. He headed for the café where they usually met. The owner was closing his shop as the anxious young man approached. They spoke quickly in French.

"A young woman, yes, about a half hour ago – drinking coffee." The owner replied.

"Did you see where she went?" Miroku was already glancing down the street. He heard the sound of the arriving train in the distance.

"Towards the station, I believe." The older man turned to lock the entrance door. When he looked around again, the young man was gone, running down the street. The Parisian looked up at the sky and smiled. "Looks like rain."

Miroku finally caught sight of her, up ahead. It was four o'clock, according to the station clock, and the train had just arrived. She was one of the last in line to board it.

"Sango!" He yelled, sprinting faster. He held the present in a tighter grip, and ignored the painful knot in his side.

She glanced around the station, wondering who had called her name. "It sounded like–" She turned around. "Miroku?" Her eyes widened.

He was forced to stop at the ticket entrance to the train, but he waited, panting heavily, hands on his knees, as Sango walked, in small deliberate steps, to him.

"Give me one good reason why I should miss this train home." She asked him. Her voice betrayed her, turning the stern command into a desperate plea.

"H-Happy…Anni…ver…sary." He finally gasped out. He slowly gained his breath as she remained in front of him. Smiling he straightened and handed her a box. "It took forever to find the perfect one."

Curious, Sango opened the thin box, taking out the wrapped object.

Late arriving passengers jostled past the couple. Sango frowned and walked around the ticket barrier. She joined Miroku on the other side.

"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.

Miroku just grinned. "Open it and see."

She pulled the tissue paper away from the present, then smiled as she recognized the object. "Really – a fan?"

She opened the fan wide with an expert flick, and turned it in her hands, marveling in its intricacy. Holding the fan between her and Miroku, she smiled. "I believe I'll forgive you, just this once. The fan will be quite a relief from all this heat."

Outside, the thunder cracked, and rain began to fall. With it, a cooling breeze started up, granting relief from the hot summer day. Miroku laughed: "Looks like I was a bit too late for the gift as well as our meeting."

Sango laughed with him. "Then next time buy me an umbrella."

_The blackbird on this first sultry morning,_

_In summer, finding buds, worms, fruit,_

_Feels the heat. Suddenly she puts out her wing –_

_The whole flirtatious span of it._

* * *

A/N: Whew! Wish me luck! This one's going in my Yale application for a writing sample!


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